


so that’s the mood

by pixiepower



Series: you in viewfinder [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Frottage, M/M, Makeup, Youtube AU, and so is chan. and that’s the fic, lee chan is hot, lipsticky blowjobs, makeup application as intimacy, relationship labels, vern is just Fully Enamored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: “You should do me.”Hansol’s reply dies in his throat. “Sorry?” he manages, hoarse.Chan laughs, head thrown back. The line of his throat dipping into his white tee is immaculate. Hansol wants to run his tongue over it. If that’s what Chan wants— “My makeup.”“Like… likeboyfriend does my makeup?”Chan’s easy smile disappears into the bathroom, then, and all that floats out is a giddy, “You would have to ask to be my boyfriend first.”
Relationships: Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Lee Chan | Dino
Series: you in viewfinder [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717456
Comments: 19
Kudos: 243





	so that’s the mood

**Author's Note:**

> title from “snap shoot” by seventeen.
> 
> a sequel to [i sense a rhythm humming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153275), my first svt fic ever! this follows directly in that universe, though it can stand alone. this is an expanding series, so look forward to more entries!
> 
> thank you, pey. here’s another marker for us.

When Chan gets home, his joggers are slung low over his hips, and he’s flicking his sweatsoaked hair out of his eyes and pushing open the door, and he’s not… he isn’t  _ home,  _ he and Hansol don’t, they don’t  _ live  _ together—yet—but he drops his bag on the floor by his shoes, drops a kiss on Hansol’s forehead as he makes his way to the bathroom, and tilts his head quizzically when he pulls back.

“Your eyebrows look different,” he says, amusement playing on his lips. Hansol wants to kiss them, but his hand flies to his face instead, fingertips finding slightly tacky hair on his browbone.

“Oh, uh—” It’s new.

Chan comes in close, and Hansol closes his eyes to receive the kiss, but it never comes. The pad of Chan’s thumb is pushing Hansol’s shy fingertips out of the way, smoothing over his eyebrows delicately. “It looks nice.”

Heat flares over Hansol’s cheeks. He can feel Chan’s breath on his hairline. “It was for a video.”

“It’s okay if it wasn’t,” Chan murmurs, but not disbelievingly. Just… understandingly. He finally presses that kiss to Hansol’s mouth, and when Hansol opens his eyes, he’s licking his lips experimentally. His eyes twinkle, not with disappointment, but with opportunity, like when he gets a good video idea or strong choreography inspiration strikes. “You should do me.”

Hansol’s reply dies in his throat. “Sorry?” he manages, hoarse.

Chan laughs, head thrown back. The line of his throat dipping into his white tee is immaculate. Hansol wants to run his tongue over it. If that’s what Chan wants— “My makeup.”

“Like… like  _ boyfriend does my makeup?” _

Chan’s easy smile disappears into the bathroom, then, and all that floats out is a giddy, “You would have to ask to be my boyfriend first.”

The door clicks behind him, and Hansol tips back too far in his office chair and has to flail to right himself with a deep swoop in his stomach. 

A beat later it clicks back open, and Chan scurries out. “I forgot my bag,” he mutters, pink-cheeked, and Hansol laughs breathlessly, watching him sling his bag back over his shoulder and hustle back into the bathroom. Hansol spins a circle in his desk chair, considering.

Chan says things that  _ mean _ something like they’re passing butterflies, pretty and light. If he didn’t, he’d never say them, keeping them bottled inside, mounted to the walls of his heart and his mind like their wings are spread and pinned. For looking, not touching. 

He and Hansol are similar in that way, often forgetting that you need to say what you mean to be understood. It comes with the content creator territory, Hansol supposes, sharing as much as possible to be as authentic as possible for everyone else, only half-remembering to preserve what you can for yourself at the end of the day. 

He can hardly say Chan doesn’t share enough with everyone else, though, his thoughts and feelings and  _ soul  _ shining through in every choreography he puts together. He’s more than allowed his modes of expression.

Hansol, on the other hand, is wracking his brain as to how he managed to skip the label and go straight to giving Chan a key to his apartment, even if Chan seems to find a strange delight in the lack of linear development.

The sound of the shower turning on in the bathroom spikes straight through Hansol’s nerve endings, and he stands up to wander out into the living room before he does something stupid like ask to join Chan, or, more likely, open the door and just stand there  _ looking  _ at him, shampoo swirling through his hair and his head tilted back and rivulets of water gliding down the planes of his—

Hansol fumbles with his phone and calls Seungkwan.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have to get out of my head. Please tell me about you.”

Snorting in a way that blows staticky air over the microphone, Seungkwan says, “How selfless of you,” but obliges anyway, filling the space with goodhearted gossip about Soonyoung and Jeonghan’s new roommate who is also an aspiring content creator, with details of his newest project, with a request to borrow a ring light.

“Yeah, of course. You don’t already have one?”

Like it pains him, Seungkwan says, “I know. I’m spoiled because everyone I know is in video production so I’ve never had to buy my own.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” Hansol laughs. He indulges in his bad habit of chewing on his thumbnail, pulling up his video production schedule in his email and rattling off the plans for Seungkwan. “I’ll need it back by next week, and I still need someone to help film on Tuesday.”

Seungkwan sighs. “Okay, well, you can ask your boyfriend when—”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“And whose fault is that?” Seungkwan snips kindly over the line. 

Hansol’s grip tightens on his cell phone, then loosens. He turns the screen off and on again, and there Chan is, pulling a face on his lockscreen. It’s so cute, and Hansol’s stomach fills with that wobbly, melty feeling he’s come to associate with Lee Chan. He thinks of his matching grimace shining from Chan’s own phone and groans.  _ Kind of a boyfriend thing to do, huh? _

“I don’t know how I missed it,” Hansol says despairingly. “He was just over all the time and we were always filming together and I just… skipped it.”

“I mean, not for nothing, but that seems like something  _ he  _ could fix, too, you know?”

That thought is extremely stressful, actually. Hansol throws his hands up helplessly, hoping some part of the gesture is communicable through the phone call. “I mean, sure! Theoretically he could ask me to be his boyfriend! But we are at a point, like, as a society, where I don’t even know if that’s something people do anymore. It seems so formal? Or like, something people make a big deal about on Twitter? Or for fourteen-year-olds? Or a formal thing for fourteen-year-olds on Twitter?”

The longer Hansol goes on, the louder Seungkwan’s laughter gets, which seems a little unfair. “Listen. If after all Shua-hyung’s thirst-trapping in your videos and on the private Instagram Seungcheol-hyung begged me for, Cheollie could get his shit together to ask him out—”

“Josh wasn’t thirst-trapping!” He was. “And it wasn’t my fault! And Seungcheol-hyung makes gaming videos, that’s  _ different.”  _ It is different; Seungcheol and Wonwoo’s let’s plays are so much more palatable than the other banshees making screeching jumpscare compilations on the Internet, not least because Seungcheol never plays horror games to start with.

“Just because you’ve branched out from reaction videos doesn’t mean everyone else is obligated to, too. And what do your videos have to do with this?”

There’s a pause that Hansol lets stretch on for a long time, and his mind kicks into gear again as he pictures waving with Chan into the camera for their first semi-scripted video together in the better part of a year (despite his most-viewed and highest-comment-count livestream being one in which Chan wandered through, not realizing Hansol was streaming until he was three-quarters of the way into pressing a kiss onto the crown of Hansol’s head). As he pictures trying to keep it together as he stares into Chan’s face for the better part of an hour, sculpting his brows and blending out eyeshadow and glossing his lips. As he pictures absolutely not being able to keep it together. The silence lingers.

“You know what? I don’t think I need to know,” mutters Seungkwan, despite Hansol knowing that every fiber of Seungkwan’s being is actually dying to know. Seungkwan is good at that, at giving other people what they need even against what he wants. It’s why he’ll tell him everything later, when Chan’s slightly shower-wet arms aren’t suddenly winding around his waist from behind.

“What doesn’t Seungkwan need to know?”

“Do you have me on speaker?  _ Tell Lee Chan to start including a ‘hyung’ if he wants to be privy to this kind of thing!” _

Chan laughs into the phone microphone and presses a loud kiss to Hansol’s cheek. “Bye, Seungkwan.”

Hansol’s eyes follow helplessly as Chan heads into the kitchen, his towel-dried hair sticking up every which way. If he told himself then, half a million subscribers and a year ago, that getting the daylights startled out of him by a hot boy in the doorway of a dance studio would lead to this, he doesn’t know if he would believe himself. That that wobbly, off-kilter feeling would bloom and blossom and envelop him until he was surrounded by nothing but petals.

“You’re so gross, Ddollie,” Seungkwan says fondly. “I just want you to be happy.”

Laughing, Hansol says, “Thanks, Kwanie. I’m gonna go.”

Seungkwan doesn’t keep him on the line, but after saying goodbye he does send him an encouraging string of thumbs up emojis and dinosaur emojis and alien emojis, surrounded by sparkles and orange hearts. Hansol wanders into the kitchen and wonders if Chan can see the trail of hearts and sparkles he leaves in his wake just looking at him, all disheveled and barefaced by the light of the refrigerator.

“Did you want to try tonight?” Chan asks, mouth half-full of Chinese leftovers. “I know the sun is going down, so by the time we get set up the light will be even and we can film?”

And Hansol is bowled over all over again by the simple things, cold noodles and messy hair and knowing that he likes to film by lamplight at night. He smiles, casting it down at Chan’s hand instead of his eyes. Chan takes this to mean he should prod at Hansol’s mouth with a chopstickful of noodles, and Hansol laughs in earnest, which conveniently opens his mouth to receive noodles. It’s a good arrangement.

“That sounds good,” he garbles, generally motioning toward the bedroom in a way he hopes means  _ I’ll go get everything ready. _

Chan chews and nods, eyes creasing in a wordless smile saying,  _ Meet you there soon. _

Hansol is glad for a few small things in this moment. 

Firstly, he’s glad that his apartment isn’t particularly large. Sure, the adsense is rolling in, the sponsorships are consistent, the PR boxes from M&M Ltd. are nice as hell, but he’s making sure his mom is taken care of, his sister can go to whatever university she wants, that the bills are paid. The money’s going back into his filming equipment, mostly, better mics and cameras and lighting, making better content to make more people laugh, or smile, or just distract themselves from life.

Secondly, he’s glad that he doesn’t actually have a lot of makeup. For all that Seungkwan and Joshua clowned him for it before, he’s found the energy to expand his skincare routine from just moisturizer. The girl at Laneige was really nice about the foundation matching, and his sister sent him a few samples she didn’t care for, and he’s learned that online ordering is great for liptint and blush and palettes. Might as well order blind and see what comes in, color-wise. 

(A little thought in the back of Hansol’s mind murmurs,  _ And maybe what doesn’t work for you will work for Chan. If he wants.) _

It was all just so daunting to start out with, but now his little container of Holika Holika, Innisfree, and whatever else he’s collected makes him feel… different. Good. Beautiful? Hansol’s not sure how to describe it. It gives him the feeling he hopes his videos give other people, some semblance of being at ease in your own skin, of looking at someone and feeling like you know them, of feeling like you can talk to them, like you can be yourself.

He rearranges the lighting, draws the blinds, and makes his bed, and is in the midst of testing camera angles when Chan wanders back in, hair brushed but still soft. He leans in to press an openmouthed kiss against Hansol’s mouth, breathing awkwardly through his teeth, which makes Hansol grin.

“I’m minty,” Chan says, grinning back with all his little teeth in a row. It’s true, just absolutely shining enamel practically blinding Hansol as Chan’s eyes crinkle sweetly at him.

Hansol mutters, “Cute,” futilely fighting the smile elbowing its way onto his own face. He pats the bedspread beside him, trying not to disturb the container of makeup set between him and where Chan will be sitting. “Can you get the camera? I forgot to charge the remote.”

“What were you thinking?” asks Chan after pressing the  _ on  _ button. He bounces a little when he hops up onto the bed, one hand on the makeup bin to keep it from moving.

“Whatever you want to do. Whatever colors you like, anything you want to try, I’m here. We can dub over or cut out anything you’re not sure about, too. I mean. You know that.”

Chan smiles, and it looks a little bashful. “I just want to look good.”

Hansol reaches a hand out and hums consideringly, fingertips brushing over Chan’s cheek. “Well, my work here is done, then! Good video everyone, don’t forget to like and subscribe!”

Surprised, Chan barks out a laugh, using his knee to tap against Hansol’s. “Shut up.” His tone is teasing, but the faintest red tinges his ears, pretty against his little silver hoop earrings, and Hansol’s heart turns over.

“Ha ha. We’ll just start with what I usually do and go from there, maybe?”

“Okay,” Chan says. “I trust you.”

And he leans into Hansol’s touch, relaxing his face in preparation, and Hansol’s heartbeat picks up. For all his time he spends in his head, there comes a moment sometimes where everything just feels oh so real, and that moment is pulling into the station now, calling out an announcement that sounds very much like,  _ oh, right, you’re going to have to hold Chan’s unbelievable face in your hands and not look like you’re head over heels for him. Tall fucking order. _

Not that his viewers would care. Or, more accurately, not that the viewers Hansol actually wants watching his content would care. But there’s an order to this he wants to preserve, hang on to what’s his for as long as he can. Chan makes dance content, he’s living, breathing  _ art, _ and Hansol’s a personality. Sure, there’s a center panel to the Venn diagram, but Chan deserves to be in control of this, too, positive or negative. The livestream showed Hansol that much.

He wants to be careful with this. 

Hansol cradles Chan’s face in his hands and goes through the simple steps first, toner and moisturizer and primer and concealer, explaining them quietly. Maybe he won’t have to re-narrate this in post.

Chan asks questions periodically, half in service of his own curiosity and half for the benefit of the channel. “Why does this product go first?” and “Do you like this brand?” and “Why do you use your fingers to apply makeup?”

Hansol snorts a little. “Real answer? I didn’t have any brushes when I first started trying this out and I just got used to it.” He pats his ring finger underneath Chan’s eyes gingerly. His skin is so delicate and smooth. “Beauty blogger answer, because it’s precise and your oils blend out the makeup to your pH or some bullshit like that.”

Chan leans back, away from Hansol’s hands and the product on his fingers, before he laughs, a full and cute one with his eyes and nose scrunched up, and it’s all Hansol can do not to surge forward and kiss him.

“Come back, I’m not done,” Hansol says, and even he can hear the fond smile in it. He tries not to glance at the camera like an amateur. “I’ll do your eyebrows, too. With a brush this time.”

“We’ll match,” Chan says. It sounds pleased.

“Yeah.” 

The side of Hansol’s hand rests gently on Chan’s cheekbone as Hansol takes an angled brush to his brows, breathing slow and even to keep the lines straight. Chan’s eyes are closed, and Hansol wonders if he would notice if he stopped moving, just gazed at him for a while. Mapping out the angles and curves and edges of his face to memorize them, commit them to memory, push out all the useless stuff like Wonwoo’s Minecraft statistics and how much Joshua can suddenly bench press until there is nothing but Lee Chan.

After a minute, Hansol manages to pull his hand away. “Eyes and cheeks next.”

“Can I choose the colors?” Chan asks, blinking quickly to let his eyes readjust to the light.

Hansol nods in the affirmative, and lets Chan rummage in the container full of loose palettes and pots and brushes until he produces a smoky reddish-brown shadow, a warm blush, and a deeply heartstopping coral-red lipcolor.

“What about these? How will they look?”

Swallowing, Hansol holds them up against Chan’s cheek where his skin glows bright under the box lights. “Perfect.”

Hansol falls into a focused silence, disappearing inside his own head the way he knows he does sometimes, brushing on mascara with butterfly-light swipes, carefully tracing a thin line of liquid liner around his eyes, smudging and blending color with his softest brush around the edges, and Chan’s serene face and contented little hum under Hansol’s hands spur him forward.

When he buffs the blush over Chan’s cheeks, Chan’s perfect nose twitches from the fallout, and his arm shoots out to grab hold of Hansol’s forearm, stalling it and exhaling sharply to avoid a sneeze. His skin is so pink around the edges, for whatever reason, and it’s so pretty, Hansol wonders if it would be worth undoing his meticulous base work just to let Chan’s natural beauty shine through.

But then Chan’s tongue darts out and wets his lips, and Hansol takes in the whole picture, and he breathes out, “Oh, man.”

“What?”

Hansol feels his face flush and hopes his camera isn’t quite good enough to capture it. “We’re almost there,” he settles on, and Chan smiles, eyes still shut, as if waiting for instruction, which is nearly too much.

Chan takes direction well, all the dance and the precision and the training ingrained in him like it’s in his blood. But it’s still so  _ Chan,  _ so fluid and playful and casual. He makes everything look easy. Like he was meant to be everywhere he is. Like the world was meant to revolve around him. Hansol counts himself lucky to be caught in his orbit, would gladly live a thousand lives as Lee Chan’s satellite.

So all it takes is a little nudge of the knuckle for Chan to tilt his face just so, cheekbone catching the light so Hansol can swipe a thumb’s worth of gold highlighter over it, and he’s glowing gold, the way he does after a particularly productive dance practice. The way he does when he and Hansol grab dinner in the early evening. The way he does when the morning sun warms his face when he stays over and falls asleep in Hansol’s bed, tired from a long day of filming or dance or both. 

“Okay, you can open.”

Chan blinks again, and a smile languid and slow like the flutter of his lashes melts over his face. A familiar ache in the pit of Hansol’s stomach settles again, pulling at all his limbs, demanding he move himself  _ closer, closer, closer.  _ And as always, Hansol catches the camera in his periphery and pushes against the feeling.

“One more thing, right?” Chan says, looking down and picking up the lipcolor.

“One more thing,” Hansol echoes. He undoes the cardstock flap and tips the tube out, unscrewing the top and making sure the right amount of red-coral heartbeat is on the applicator, and he leans forward just a little. He parts his lips. “Go like this?”

Leaning forward to meet Hansol’s hand halfway, Chan leaves his eyes open this time, not roving, but looking right at Hansol while Hansol stares at his mouth, watching himself with shaking hands try to convince his paintbrush to saturate the canvas of an already perfect art piece, watching color glimmer and appear on Chan’s pretty mouth. Oh, God, Hansol wants to kiss it off him, wants wants wants.

It’s disarming and heady to watch Chan’s lips hold the pout when Hansol pulls his hand away, his bottom lip jutted out, plush with pumpkin, the velvet color bright like fire against his skin. Chan’s eyes are low with something, trained on Hansol’s eyes, and his chest is rising and falling with technical breathing, way too even to be truly natural. Almost predatory. Hansol wants to lay himself out.

“Well?” Chan breathes, eyes still razor-sharp.

“Well what?” Hansol says, exhaling half to a laugh.

Chan leans forward even more, steadying himself with a hand on Hansol’s knee. Hansol feels the touch like a spark, and it spreads warmth through his body, a wildfire burning into his stomach and chest and shoulderblades. He wants to fill his lungs with the smoke of it all. 

Chan doesn’t even glance at the camera Hansol is so, so hyperaware of. 

Instead, he prowls closer, lips a breath’s distance from Hansol’s ear. Instead, he says sweetly, “Well? How do I look?”

Hansol closes his eyes, overwhelmed. He can’t do this. “So good.”

Chan chuckles, the sound low and sexy, and Hansol takes a slow, deep breath. A lungful of smoke. His body weight disappears from Hansol’s, but his hands are still on Hansol’s knees. A beat later his voice floats up from further away, “How about now?” Hansol’s afraid to open his eyes. “Come on, baby.”

It takes a moment for light to start filtering back into Hansol’s eyes as he blinks, blinks again, hard, and exhales,  _ “Fuck.” _

Chan has dropped to his knees between Hansol’s legs where they hang off the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at Hansol, all made up and coquettish. He has this  _ look _ on his face, this beautiful unreadable look, and his hands are on Hansol’s knees, nails catching on the material of his shorts like he wants them gone, which is sort of a lot to handle at any moment but especially difficult now, with these deep dark lashes on his beautiful eyes, and a satiny-bright smile.

“You—?”

Chan nods, quick, and it seems awfully riled up for all his usual poise. His hands flex on Hansol’s thighs. “Yeah, Hansol, I want—”

“Turn off the camera,” Hansol begs, all his nerve endings on fire, vision hazy with the heat of it all.

At that, Chan has the gall to pout. God, he doesn’t even know what he looks like.  _ Good God, he has no idea how he looks right now.  _ Hansol must look appropriately devastated about it, though, because Chan sighs theatrically before standing up with one of those arched-back, undulating sweeps of his body and moving back to turn off the camera manually. 

When he turns back to stare Hansol down, Hansol lets out an admittedly desperate noise. “Please kiss me, Chan-ah.”

“So polite,” Chan coos, but when he leans in to kiss Hansol he’s smiling.

Hansol feels his sheer tinted balm sliding against Chan’s lipstick, and it feels like the first time, fingers tangling in hair and breathless smiles punctuating and Chan being so good it hurts. Chan’s mouth moves like his body moves, it knows what it wants and it takes what it wants if you let it, and you want to, because you’re helpless to do anything but give him everything. Hansol’s hand tries to find its hopeful way to Chan’s waist, Chan’s thigh, Chan’s ass, anywhere, but he can’t, because Chan is sliding down his body onto his knees again. 

Chan catches Hansol’s waistband with two fingers on either side of his shorts and cocks an eyebrow. Hansol can’t find the words. He just nods, and lifts his hips, and Chan tugs down the front of his shorts and his boxers, only just enough to take him out.

“You were looking at me all…” Chan says, trailing off as he wraps his warm hand around Hansol’s dick, thumb toying gently with the underside of the head.

“Of course I was, are you kidding?” Hansol says, biting down on his lip and tasting his vanilla-y balm and the residual floral oiliness of Chan’s lipcolor. He hopes it’s smeared across his face, hopes the lower half of his face cries,  _ Chan was here. _

Chan doesn’t reply, then, just opens his mouth and lets spit roll down his tongue onto Hansol’s cock, and starts moving his hand, concentrated and talented. Nope. This is going to be over so fucking quick.

“You were so hot when you were doing my makeup, Sol-ah. Your eyebrows were all furrowed and you kept  _ looking  _ at me, I just wanted… I wanted…” Chan’s staring at his hand working Hansol over, and that pink flush from before is spreading under the collar of his tee, a ruddiness, a wildfire all his own. He seems to think quickly before leaning in slowly, and carefully, so carefully, pressing a kiss against the side of Hansol’s cock. He leaves a lipstick print, and Hansol’s stomach flips over. “Oh, wow.”

“Oh, God,” Hansol echoes helplessly. “You’re so gorgeous.”

Chan’s eyes light up, whether at the sight or Hansol’s heavy-tongued praise it’s impossible to tell, and he leaves another, and another, and one under Hansol’s bellybutton, and again and again, until it seems like he’s vibrating with an arcane energy and he takes Hansol into his mouth and starts sucking him off in earnest.

Hansol’s hands fly out to fist in the bedcovers, and his right hand smacks into the container of makeup, rattling the contents. “Hang on, hang on, hang on,” Hansol says, grasping for the handle to move it safely to the ground, and Chan stops moving, pulling back just enough to give Hansol the faculty to maneuver helpfully but not letting him out of his mouth completely.

The sight of Chan’s red-coral lip print ringed around him has Hansol far too close already, smears of wet paint messy around the length of it, and he chokes out, “You should see yourself.”

Chan’s face when he pulls off to reply has Hansol groaning, all self-satisfied and grinning like a cat. He purrs, “I would be able to if you hadn’t made me turn off the camera,” before pitching forward to take him deep again, threading the fingers of one hand through Hansol’s. The duality, sharp and sweet, is a little overwhelming.

“We need to talk about that, probably,” Hansol says, the quirk of Chan’s sharp eyebrow between his legs eliciting an, “Okay, maybe not right this  _ second, shit!” _

Hansol should probably feel worse about the fact that Chan pulls off again to laugh, probably should feel self-conscious about someone who is sucking his dick pausing that activity just to laugh near said dick, but… he doesn’t. Hansol just feels warm and syrupy and happy, and he laughs, too, because Chan’s laugh makes him want to. Chan leans his face on Hansol’s thigh and looks up at him, all dark mascara and lipstick smears and blushed skin under cream blush, and Hansol’s stomach is tense with arousal and attraction and affection in equal measure.

“Stop making me laugh, I want to make you come,” Chan grins, spit-wet and crayon-coral, and Hansol laughs again, wide-eyed and incredulous that this incredible boy is here, with him, doing this.

“By all means.”

Chan sighs like he’s finally been let loose, and wraps his free hand around the base of Hansol’s cock. Before long he’s licking sweetly at the rest of it, tracing his kiss marks with his tongue and fingertips. Oh, dear God, he’s good at this. Hansol thinks he’s pretty good at oral, likes sucking dick as much as the next guy, but — good  _ Christ,  _ Chan’s mascaraed lashes flutter as he trails his tongue back up the leak of precome sliding down the length, and Hansol’s thighs are going to be so sore tomorrow from all this tension he’s bearing in them. Maybe he can borrow Chan’s thing of Tiger Balm.

Hansol’s hand tightens in Chan’s, and he feels his toes start to curl into the shag of the rug, that telltale feeling knotting itself below his belly. He moans lowly, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” and Chan flickers his tongue over the slit, and that’s it. With shaking legs and shuddering gasps he paints Chan’s open mouth and red-smeared lips with white, and flops back onto the bed when Chan lets go of his hand to swipe at his mouth and lick his fingers clean, tongue hanging out all debauched like he knows exactly what he looks like.

“What the fuck,” Hansol gasps, and Chan laughs again, wide and proud and musical, cut clean between breaths like the big piano on the floor in the store in New York. It’s a sound Hansol wants to bury himself in.

Hansol breathes heavy as he comes down, and feels a little grateful that his core gave out so he doesn’t have to fully watch Chan move out of his position and stand up. It’s hard enough to look at his face, seeing the smug flush bloom down his neck and disappear under the collar of his t-shirt.

“You’re so lucky you’re dating a dancer. My knees are always bruised already,” Chan says with a sly grin, stretching out his legs in an impossible way that would have Hansol hard way too quick if he hadn’t just come.

“Why are you like this?” Hansol whines while he tugs his pants back up, using all his core muscles to do a half-sit-up and grab for Chan’s thigh. He manages to snag a handful of soft fabric and firm muscle, dragging him up onto the bed and trying to kiss him. “Oh my God.”

Chan leans back from where he’s mouthing messily at Hansol’s jaw. “You like it, right?”

When he asks it there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes, something strange and insecure and true, and Hansol’s mind wipes, replaced with nothing but  _ God, I do,  _ “I like it so much, I like you so much—please be my boyfriend, in my mind you already were—I gave you a fucking key to my apartment—fuck, I want you around all the time, I want you, I  _ want _ you,” Hansol lets out in a rush, not caring if he sounds stupid or desperate, watches Chan’s face melt into something else, something relieved and fond and endlessly beautiful, and Hansol tugs him into a crushing kiss, not caring if their mouths are still smearing popsicle-redness over each other’s skin, just wanting him closer.

Chan is whining a little into the kiss, and Hansol’s hands are palming his ass,  _ finally,  _ relishing the way Chan wriggles closer and throws a leg over Hansol’s. Impossibly, Chan kisses him harder, licking into Hansol’s mouth like he’s turpentine, stripping his paint, leaving him clean, and they move together, hands roaming. Chan is making hot, pleased little noises, and Hansol would do anything to keep them coming.

“What do you need?” Hansol pants into the top of Chan’s head, hoping he can hear him from where he’s mouthing at Hansol’s jaw. Chan isn’t responding, just rocking against Hansol, hips moving faster and whines coming out sharper, and Hansol just says, “You’re so beautiful, Chan-ah, look at you.”

“Hansol,  _ Hansol,” _ Chan moans prettily, and then gasps and freezes, burying his face in Hansol’s neck. He’s shuddering inhales that sound like music to Hansol, quick little exhales fanning over his pulse point and feathering the edge of his hair. Chan’s body clings to Hansol’s, strong thighs tightening vicelike around one of Hansol’s own, and he is so beautiful. He is so beautiful, and Hansol is so gone for him.

“Did you—”

“Uh huh,” Chan whimpers against Hansol’s skin, his hot breath muffled.

_ Fuck.  _ Hansol runs a soothing hand over the strip of skin on Chan’s hip where his shirt has ridden up. “Wow,” he breathes.

Chan is breathing raggedly, a shiver going down his spine, but after a minute he groans, burying his face impossibly closer into Hansol.

_ Fuck, I hope he’s not embarrassed.  _ At the very thought, Hansol can’t help it; his laughter just bubbles out of him, a primary school science project of affection. 

Trying to wriggle out of Hansol’s arms, Chan shoves at him, hard. “It’s not my fault! How dare you laugh at me for this! Have you seen you?!”

Hansol chokes on his laughter. “Me? Are you serious? Do you even see you?”

“Quite literally I can’t and you fucking  _ know  _ that! And you made me turn off the camera! Do you even own a handheld mirror?” Chan is writhing against Hansol’s body with exaggerated rage, which is kind of doing something for him, even though Chan’s pants are probably getting uncomfortably tacky inside and they’re both laughing too hard to take it any further.

“No! Why would I need one?! This is the first time in my life I have ever needed one and I am filled with regret! I will literally regret not having a handheld mirror for this very occasion for the rest of my life,” Hansol laughs, and noses at Chan’s jaw to uncover his mouth and capture it in another kiss, and another, because he can’t resist. “We have to take off your makeup, babe.”

Chan groans again. “No,” he whines, “That’s so annoying. Makeup is canceled.”

“Josh would kill me if he found out I slept with makeup on, and that extends to you. Come on.” Hansol stands up with concerted effort and tugs at Chan’s arm. Unable to move him via arm, he pinches his ass, and Chan gnashes his teeth threateningly.

“No. Don’t talk about Shua-hyung after I suck your dick. Official boyfriend rule number one.”

Hansol laughs and leans back, spine overextended, to fish his face cleansing wipe packet out of his bedside table. “I got it,” he says with effort, reaching for Chan’s arm again to pull himself back up. “Close your eyes.”

Chan obliges, though it’s anyone’s guess if it’s from exhaustion or to be compliant. “Kind of frustrating to spend all that time putting the makeup on just to take it off, huh?”

Hansol shrugs, then realizes after a beat that Chan couldn’t see him. “I dunno. For me, I don’t measure it like that. It’s to make me feel good. If I achieve that, it’s worth it. And after this, I’d say it was well worth it.”

The corner of Chan’s lips quirk up, that smug little prideful smile flashing, here and then gone again. “Aren’t the  _ boyfriend does my makeup  _ videos supposed to be the inexperienced one doing the makeup anyway?” Chan asks through the corner of his mouth, not being particularly careful to keep his muscles still when Hansol runs the remover wipes over his streaky face. His nose scrunches up cutely when Hansol swipes at his eyelids.

Hansol smiles. “Traditionally.”

“We’ll just have to do it again, then.”

“If you think I’m letting you waste more of this 40,000 won mascara just to let it all run down your face…”  _ You’d be right. I’d chip all the pans out of the palette for you. _

Chan lets out a snort, and the makeup wipe flutters with the rush of air. “You think you’re getting a blowjob every time you do my makeup?”

“Technically, following precedent, the transitive property of boyfriends states that if  _ you _ do  _ my _ makeup, you would be the one getting the blowjob.”

Chan’s fingers catch Hansol’s wrist, then, and pulls his hand down so he can open his eyes fully. He smiles at Hansol, barefaced and pink. Hansol thinks he looks more stunning than ever. “Now you’re talking.” The look on his face is confident and fond, and when he kisses Hansol, it tastes like soap and toner and joy.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/pixiepowerao3) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


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